VICTORY
I
A moment I yield thee; 'tis but to shield thee
The better; 'tis but to be free to proclaim
To men that shall listen, soft eyes that shall glisten
As thine eyes glistened, thine own sweet name.
II
'Tis but to make greater our pleasure later,
When both our hearts and our minds have grown.
Some spirit has told me that I shall enfold thee
One day, my lost one—but still mine own.
III
I feel, through the weary days, dismal and dreary,
The far keen rapture of that embrace!
Its far keen glory—when life's dull story
Is quickened, by thine imperial face.
IV
I will be ready, my voice shall be steady,
And all the airs around shall be sweet;
To the dim soft bower of love's first hour
We two will hasten, we twain will retreat.
V
There we will linger; I, the singer,
Thou the singer's glory and crown;
And all life's labour, and life's red sabre,
In those far meadows I will lay down.
